


Look Up at the Stars

by earnestdesire



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexual Tony Stark, Canon-Typical Sexist Language, Canon-Typical Violence, High School Student Peter Parker, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Kidnapping, Organized Crime, POV Alternating, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Past Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Police Officer Steve Rogers, Teacher Tony Stark, Trans Steve Rogers, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnestdesire/pseuds/earnestdesire
Summary: Tony Stark isn't Iron Man, except for the ways he always will be.Steve Rogers isn't Captain America, except for the ways he can't help trying.Tony Stark is a part-time professor with a precocious teenage student named Peter Parker Rogers. Peter's father is a police officer, and the sexiest thing Tony has ever seen. Peter is a genius, Tony is a moron, and Rogers is really, really overprotective. That would all be fine (really, it's fine, Tony is handling it, Jesus) until the criminal organization who once kidnapped Tony decides to try again.Steve Rogers knows better than to cross professional boundaries. His son's professor: Out of bounds. Billionaire inventor of his team's best tech: Out of bounds. The victim he's assigned to protect: WAY out of bounds. Steve is captain of the best Strategic Response team in the NYPD, so he's used to navigating dangerous terrain.Tony doesn't really do boundaries. He's trying, but Steve Rogers keeps blurring all the lines.Steve may not be a genius, but he knows chemistry when he feels it. Probably. He'll need to keep Tony Stark alive if he wants to test that hypothesis.***SPOILERS IN THE TAGS
Relationships: Carol Danvers/James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Happy Hogan/Pepper Potts, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, Maria Hill/Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The King of Wakanda has ascended. Rest easy, Chadwick Boseman. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Kudos and comments are really encouraging, and help me stay motivated to work on individual projects. I'm available on Tumblr as earnestdesire, so hit me up there, too. Just try not to send “where the hell is the update???” comments, because those are mean.
> 
> Keep yourselves safe for me. XOXO

**PROLOGUE**

“Look, I love you, but you’re being a little bitch.”

“Call me that again, man. Once more. Go on.”

“What are you going to do, Rhodey?” Tony shot back. Tony Stark always shot back. “You going to knock me out? Throw me over your shoulder, carry me home like your trophy kill? _Behold! I have tamed the great and terrible Stark!_ ”

“You’re not that great, Tony.”

“Look. I’ve had a few drinks—”

“You’ve had a few _bottles_.”

“Okay, I’m well-lubricated. Which is for the best, considering my plans for the evening.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m going home now, with that man over there. And, potentially, that blonde girl at the bar, if she’s into that kind of thing—”

James Rhodes’s expression went even more thunderous.

“—So if you’d like a ride, you need to retrieve your sense of adventure from the coat check, ASAP.”

“That man is a hooker, Tones. Even I can tell he’s a hooker.”

“Yes, but it’s his night off. Probably. If not, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“Do you even listen to yourself? Ever?”

Tony sighed, and threw back the last of his scotch. “I hire people to listen to me. It’s efficient. Are you coming or not?”

“Not.”

“You’re staying in my guest room!”

The older man bristled. “Not tonight, I’m not.”

“Rhodey, Honeybear, Pudding Pop, you know you’re my one-and-only. The McCoy to my Kirk! The unfortunately platonic love of my life. Jealousy does not become you.”

Rhodey pointed to his own handsome, scowling face. “This is not the face of a jealous man. This is the face of a man whose best friend is wasting himself on hookers and embarrassingly accurate _Star Trek_ references.”

“I regret nothing,” Tony replied with smug gravitas.

“I do,” Rhodey sighed, shaking his head. “I do. All the time.”

Tony staggered to his feet (with grace, of course, and plenty of sex appeal) and made his way across the ballroom toward the very tall, very young, very interested-looking man in a rented tux. He had really broad shoulders, which was kind of a _thing_ for Tony. That’s all. He looked like he could chop down a tree.

“That kid has never held an ax, Tones.”

“To be fair, I didn’t know I said that out loud.”

Rhodey patted at Tony’s pockets in a quick, well-practiced check. “Wallet, keys, cell phone, dignity? Three out of four ain’t bad.”

“I’m fine. Stop fussing. I’m going home with a lumberjack-in-look-only, to have very dignified sex. I’ll even leave on the bowtie.”

“Well, then, that’ll certainly elevate the act to ‘ _almost_ not sad as fuck.’”

“It won’t be sad! It’ll be fun!”

His best friend’s eyes met Tony’s, suddenly, and Tony had to look away. There was something very dark pulling at the edges of Rhodey’s gaze. Tony didn’t want to be sad.

The faux-lumberjack had the good sense to meet Tony half-way, and he smiled with the best teeth money could buy. “Thought you might’ve left me, gorgeous,” he purred, petting Tony’s arm a little. Rhodey snorted.

“Nope,” Tony smiled. “Grab your coat, Paul Bunyan. Let’s get out of here.” The man (who was, let’s face it, probably a prostitute) looked bemused, but went immediately to the coat check. People who weren’t hookers usually asked more questions. Tony looked back toward the bar, considering the merits of charming a certain blonde C-list celebrity into joining the party. Rhodey’s snapping fingers snagged his attention once more.

“Let me take you home. Without the pro.” When Tony rolled his eyes, Rhodey took hold of both his biceps, shaking him a little. “You and me. BFF time. We’ll watch ‘The Breakfast Club’ and gorge ourselves on sugary cereal.”

“Breakfast with ‘The Breakfast Club?’ You are devious, Rhodes.”

“Say yes.”

“Ahhhh—no. No can do. Under normal circumstances, BFF time is the best time. You know this. Right now, though, I need to have sex, and you remain strictly off the menu.”

“Obviously. But nobody _needs_ to have sex; that’s a want, not a need. We went over this when you were, like, 16 years old. I thought you’re supposed to be a quick learner?”

Something in Tony flushed hot and cut deep. He leaned into the taller man and dropped his voice, hissing, “Fuck you, Rhodes. Fuck you, and the self-righteous horse you rode in on! I’m not 16 anymore, and you’re not my self-appointed moral compass. Do you know what my week looked like before you got here, yesterday?”

Rhodey looked abashed. “I know. Shit, I know, that crazy meeting with the board—”

“Right. That. And Obie’s losing his fucking mind, really, because the DOD are drooling all over themselves, waiting on the Jericho. The fucking Jericho! And what am I supposed to tell them when I don’t deliver? Sorry Uncle Sam, I tested this thing, and it’s scary as shit, and I grew a conscience all of a sudden?”

“You’re not your father, man. Obie needs to respect that.”

“I don’t even respect that! I’m a weapons designer who won’t design weapons. What the hell else am I good for? What am I going to do, Rhodey?” The other man stared back at Tony with horrible, pitying eyes. “Obie’s right. I’m going to drive the company into the ground, and it’s... there are so many people depending on SI. Employees. Stock holders. They don’t deserve to have their lives ruined because I’m not man enough to blow people up anymore. So. I’m not thinking about that tonight. Tonight, I am not thinking about anything except my dick. I’m a bad person, and I’m a sad person, and I know that. I’m not like you, okay? Is that okay?”

“No, you don’t have to be like me,” Rhodey sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. “But you are more than what you are. You don’t see it.”

“I’m really not, Sourpatch. What you see is what you get.”

The prodigal escort returned, wool coat slung over one arm. Rhodey smiled at the guy, tightly, and they both followed Tony toward the front lobby of the St. Regis Hotel.

“You want me to come home with you?” Rhodey offered, a bit apologetic. Tony smiled to the press waiting outside, raising a hand and knocking a friendly shoulder into the silent hooker’s wool-wrapped elbow. The poor kid looked like Christmas had come early. Rhodey had his Meet the Press smirk on, and God... Tony wished he wasn’t wearing it. He wished that smile wasn’t a prerequisite of being Tony Stark’s best friend.

“Nah, no way,” he replied, patting Mr. _Muscle and Fitness_ on the arm. His custom Hummer H3 slid neatly to the end of the red carpet, and Tony’s chauffeur pulled open the rear door. “This is the fun-vee. The humdrum-vee wasn’t available this evening.”

Rhodey choked on a laugh, but waved Tony off as he and his date (employee?) navigated the gauntlet lined with flashing cameras. Hopefully the guy wasn’t outed as an escort too quickly; Tony’s reputation didn’t have far to sink, but paying for sex wasn’t normally his style. It was just... easy. Simple. Tony didn’t want to have to navigate someone else’s feelings in the morning. He didn’t want to navigate _feelings_ at all.

He caught Rhodey’s eye one last time before the car door shut, and then watched his best friend turn back inside through the darkly tinted window.

“Can I ask you a question?” Lumber-Jacked said, amused and flirty.

“Of course,” Tony replied. He slid his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text to the general manager of the St. Regis. Rhodey would need a room there tonight, if he wasn’t coming back to the mansion.

“Is it true you went 12 for 12 with last year’s _Maxim_ cover models?”

Tony huffed a laugh. “That is an excellent question. Yes and no. March and I had a scheduling conflict but, fortunately, the Christmas cover was twins. Anything else?”

“Is it cool if I take a picture with you?”

Tony slid him a sardonic look over his tinted glasses. “Yes, it’s very cool.” The other man laughed, and was smart enough _not_ to pull out his phone. Jesus, he was pretty. His jaw was sharp and square, his lips full. Warm brown eyes and black hair, slicked back. Those _shoulders_ , holy fuck, and the size of his arms. Tony wanted to shove his dick down that long, tan throat. “What’s your rate, beautiful?”

“Let me take a picture of you kissing me, and you won’t need to pay me,” he smirked. “I’ll eat for a year on the royalties.”

“True,” Tony nodded, smiling back. “But you’ll lose it all in legal fees when I bury you in defamation paperwork.”

The hooker blanched, but then regained his bravado. “Fair enough. $1000 for the night?”

“$1500 if you leave before I wake up.”

“Done.”

His big hand slid onto Tony’s thigh, up and up, and Tony leaned back with a heavy sigh. The street noise was muffled, the privacy panel up between the driver and the back seat. “What should I call you?” Tony asked.

“Call me Indy,” the hooker murmured.

Tony snorted. “ _Indy?_ Really?”

“Really,” he nodded, his hand passing over Tony’s half-hard cock. “Indries, actually, but I go by Indy.”

“Jesus, I thought you were being ironically racist. That’s got to be your real name. Why would you give me your real name?”

Indy pressed harder against Tony’s erection, talented fingers lowering the zipper. “Why would I give you a fake name that actually sounded fake?”

Tony laughed appreciatively, and then moaned as Indy squeezed the head of his cock through his silk boxers. “Do that. Mmm... _yes_. Keep doing that.”

“You’re the boss.”

The hummer stopped at a red light, idling quietly, and Tony let himself sink into the feeling of Indy’s warm, strong hand. It was good. It was simple. His eyes were closed, and his head was still pleasantly buzzed after hours of drinking a bit too much in public. Rhodey was home, if not technically in Tony’s _house_ this evening, and Indy was breathing warm against his neck, and the StarkPhone prototypes were nearly ready for presentation to the board, and Tony had a few ideas to address the kinks in the next stage of AI development which, yeah, _kinks_ , okay that sounded—

The door on Tony’s left side flew open. So did Tony’s eyes.

“What the fuck?!”

He was staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic weapon. His hands went up. His penis went abruptly limp as the all the blood in his body rushed right into his chest. Tony’s heart was pounding hard to enough to hurt. “What the fuck?” he repeated, frozen in his seat.

“Don’t move, Mr. Stark,” a calm, quiet voice advised him from his right. He couldn’t turn away from the gun, but his eyes skipped that way.

“Indy? What the _hell_ is going on?”

“Stay calm,” the man who was very clearly _not_ a prostitute advised him. He tucked Tony back into his pants, carefully, and zipped him up. “No one here wants to hurt you.”

“There is a gun in my fucking face!” Tony yelped.

“Yes. Now you’re going to get out of the car, very calmly, and get into the van just outside.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, we’ll put a bullet through your brain,” Indy replied. Tony whimpered, like a fucking child. He couldn’t help it. “Your brain is valuable, Mr. Stark. To you, and to us. You should make this easier on everyone.”

Tony’s brain—his _valuable brain_ —was running calculations, probabilities, worst-case scenarios. He couldn’t sort the data into anything useful because it was moving too fast, and his heartbeat was too loud, and he’d just been standing with Rhodey in the lobby of the St. fucking Regis, and none of this made any _sense_ —

“You want money? Ransom? I’ll transfer the funds right now. You don’t need to take me anywhere. I’ll give you as much as you want.”

“We don’t want your money,” Indy told him. The man with the gun took a step back, making room for Tony to exit the hummer.

“What? What else is there?”

“I told you already. You weren’t listening. Now get out of the car.”

It was the only choice. The only scenario that didn’t end with Tony’s skull splattered all over the backseat. Tony slid both legs out of the vehicle, hands still raised, and stood up.

There were two more gunmen in the alleyway—an alley, a fucking alley, there were cars passing by 20 feet away—and they were all aiming their weapons steadily at Tony’s chest. He couldn’t run. He wanted to scream, but that couldn’t possibly end well for him. A navy-blue van idled nearby, side door slid open. Inside the open door of the van, another man waited with hands clasped. He was tan, dark-haired, short and sleek. Expensive tuxedo. Goatee. Tinted glasses. Red and gold cufflinks, _holy hell_ , they were going to get away with this. They were going to kidnap the most famous man in the country.

Who?—Where?—For god’s sake, why?—

_I told you already_. _You weren’t listening_.

Tony took a few halting steps toward the van.

Indy stayed behind in Tony’s car, watching through the open door until Tony was stripped to his underwear, handcuffed, gagged, and seated in the back of the van. His clothing, phone, and other items disappeared to God-knew-where. Once Tony was secure in the van, the doppelganger stepped out, adjusted his cuffs, and joined Indy in the hummer. No one said a word. A gunman kept his pistol pressed to the back of Tony’s neck. Indy smiled, but his eyes were flat; he gave Tony a small wave before the door to the van slammed shut.

Where would Indy go? What was he going to tell the police? He was on camera leaving the gala with Tony, wasn’t he? Rhodey had seen the guy, up close and personal. When Obie realized Tony was missing, that was the first place everyone would look.

The police would find Indy soon enough. He’d be America’s Most Wanted, and that made Tony close his eyes in cautious relief.

It’d be okay. He’d be okay. They wanted Tony’s brain (his _brain_ , what the fuck did that even mean?) so they couldn’t kill him. No breath, no brain. He’d be okay.

Howard Stark's voice boomed inside his head, reminded him: “Never let them see you cry, boy. Never let them see they’ve got you.”

_Too late_ , _Dad_ , Tony thought, shuddering, as the van drove away into the night.


	2. Chapter 1

"One, remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Two, never give up work. Work gives you meaning and purpose and life is empty without it. Three, if you are lucky enough to find love, remember it is there and don't throw it away."

― Stephen Hawking (1942-2018) in an interview with Diane Sawyer, June 2010 ―

**CHAPTER ONE**

The day of the parent/teacher conference turned Peter Parker Rogers into a twitchy, inattentive mess. He spilled Cheetos on the lab floor. His lips were bitten. He tore through his paper with his pencil lead. It would have been funny, if Tony’s own nerves weren’t skittering around inside his chest as well.

“Look, Mr. Stark, my dad isn’t really that... I mean, he’s a by-the-book kind of guy...”

“The book? Which book?” Tony quipped, smirking at Peter’s rattled demeanor. “ _The Book of Joy_? _The Blue Book_? _The Book of Mormon_? Don’t say the last one.”

“I’m serious, Mr. Stark. You can’t say stuff like that to him!”

“Kid,” Tony sighed. “I’m an adult. Your dad is an adult. We’re going to have a very adult conversation, and I’m not going to tell him about your overconsumption of peppermint hot chocolate. Stop freaking out.”

Peter, it seemed, was incapable. He drummed his fingers against the desk. His eyes darted, again and again, to the door. He made an odd little whistling sound between his teeth, until Tony was tempted to gag him with his yellow Hufflepuff scarf.

“Stop freaking out!”

“I like you!” Peter blurted back. They blinked at each other for a moment, and then the kid blushed red. “You’re—I just mean—you’re a really good teacher, Mr. Stark! I’m learning so much! And the stuff we’re talking about isn’t anything like what my friend Ned is covering in his advanced classes, they won’t even be _looking_ at materials chemistry until college, I bet, and I don’t want Dad to—to be put off by your jokes and stuff. Okay?”

“I hardly think your dad is going to pull you out of tutoring just because I made a joke.”

“He’s kind of proper. About some things.” Peter’s tapping ramped up, and he avoided Tony’s eye. “Just, like, don’t swear when you talk to him, okay? And don’t do that weird thing where you call everybody by nicknames.”

“I’m hurt, Underroos. That isn’t weird.”

“Yeah, it’s weird, and it’s kind of _good weird_ , but Dad won’t get that. So, please don’t.”

Tony took in his student’s twisted mouth, his noisy fingers, his carefully-styled hair. He was so damn young. Still wearing his house key strung onto his lanyard, recent student photo smiling with too many teeth. Something in Tony’s chest clenched tight.

“Peter? No, hey, look at me.” When wide brown eyes met his own, the older man frowned. “I will not do anything to jeopardize our tutoring sessions. All right? I know we joke around in here, because that’s how I like to work, but I do know that you’re still a kid. And I do run a very powerful company.”

“You’re, like, the head of R and D.”

“Okay, I _figurehead_ a very powerful company. Point is: I know how to take a meeting. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

At that, Peter’s expression lightened considerably. He blew out a long breath.

“Is there… I mean, if there’s something going on at home. With your dad. You can always talk to me.” Tony swallowed, and Pete blinked some more, a bit startled. “Just… so you know.”

The boy gaped, and then started to giggle. “Oh—oh no, Mr. Stark! Nothing like that. My dad is _great_. We’re great! He would never—whatever you’re thinking, he really could not _ever_.” Peter leaned far forward in his seat, smiling. Tony tapped his fingers against his chest, and tried not to look as relieved as he felt. “You’ll understand when you meet him, I swear.”

“I want to say, ‘Looking forward to it,’” Tony said, “but you’ve kind of doom-and-gloomed the whole thing for me.”

“Sorry,” Peter muttered, not very apologetically, and dropped his head to his notes.

Tony snorted a laugh. “Tell me where you’re at on the tensile strength. Blow my mind, Pumpkin Eater.”

When the time finally came to call it quits, Peter’s nerves skyrocketed again. He hovered. He was dancing from foot to foot while Tony packed away the last of their equipment and locked the cabinets along the far wall.

Two knocks heralded the arrival of The Dad. His real name, of course, was Captain Steve Rogers of the NYPD. Big name. The man behind the moniker did not disappoint.

Peter actually _hugged_ his father, if a bit awkwardly, before turning in Tony’s direction. Teenagers who hugged their parents should only exist on TV. Tony crossed the room with his Public Smile firmly in place.

“Captain Rogers? Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” Rogers nodded, and apparently wasn’t going to shake Tony’s hand. It was a relief, but also pretty weird. Tony slid both of his hands into his pockets, still smiling.

“Peter’s told me so much about you. Great kid you’ve got here.”

“He is,” Captain Rogers agreed, shooting Pete a proud look. The teenager flushed.

“I’ll... just... get out of here. Meet Ned before Model UN,” Peter gulped. He slid his lab notes across the table toward Tony, and the teacher snagged them. His look was sort of pleading, and Tony couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “He said he’s got a cool video he wants to show me on his phone.”

“I’ll see you at home,” the Captain replied. He wasn’t quite amused, but his eyes were warm. “Tell Ned ‘hello’ for me.”

“Sure thing, Dad. See you on Monday, Mr. Stark!”

Tony waved him off, and led the Captain over to his cleared desk.

So. This was Peter’s dad.

Captain Rogers was built like a _Playgirl_ model. Then again, those models probably couldn’t bench 300 pounds. He couldn’t look less like his son if Peter were adopted. (Which, actually, hey, he totally could be. Tony had no idea.) The captain was very blond, with intensely blue eyes and pale skin. Square jaw, full lips. He had no freckles, no scars, not even a hair out place on his door-frame-scraping head.

He was... yeah, hands-down, the most beautiful human being Tony had ever seen, and he’d slept with actual supermodels, back in the day. This was now, officially, awkward as fuck.

Steve Rogers was painfully stoic; he hadn’t even smiled while Peter babbled his ‘goodbye.’ Whenever Peter talked about his father—before today’s nervous anomaly, at least—he spoke with warm affection. There was love there. Trust. It was hard to picture dorky, chatty Peter connecting with this unexpected Adonis, but Tony figured he’d seen weirder.

Never hotter. But weirder.

Tony took a breath.

“Captain Rogers—”

“Steve.”

“Steve,” Tony acknowledged, nervously. He waved Rogers toward the chair on the other side of Tony's desk. “Thank you so much for meeting with me. As I said, Peter’s a great kid. Funny, nerdy, a little quiet until you get to know him, and then, _wow_ , do those floodgates open.” Tony stopped himself, wincing a little in self-deprecation. “I can relate to that. You’re obviously doing a great job at home.”

“Thank you. Raising Peter is a privilege.”

“Right. Of course, it would be. I’ve been very happy with his work in our tutoring sessions, and more than that... The truth is, I wanted to talk to you in person because—” Tony leaned forward over his desk. “In addition to being a great kid, Peter is a genius.”

The other man sat up (impossibly) straighter. “I know.”

“You don't,” Tony said, as gently as he could. Rogers’s eyes went sharp, focused. Tony went on: “You think he's smart—really, really smart—and you're proud, because it means he has options. He'll go to college, graduate in four years, maybe go on for his Masters. Good kid. Smart kid. You call him a ‘genius’ out of love, because you're his dad and good parents always think their kid is extraordinary. But Peter _actually is_ extraordinary. One of the brightest kids I’ve ever worked with, which is saying something. He should be starting university this year, not high school. He's gifted.”

Rogers frowned and shook his head slowly. “He's 14. What would college do to a 14-year-old, Mr. Stark? Chew him up, spit him out. His mom and I don't want that for Peter.”

That was an awfully hard point to refute, as Tony knew exactly what college did to a 14-year-old. Still, Peter wasn’t Tony. He was kinder, and more cautious, and a hell of a lot closer to his parents. “What _do_ you want for him?” Tony asked Rogers, tilting his head encouragingly.

“I want him to be happy.”

Tony nodded, licked his lips. “Do you honestly think he can be, when everyone around him is holding him back?” The captain’s frown deepened and his jaw went tight. Tony sighed, dragging fingers through his hair. “I'm sorry, but that's the truth. If Peter moved through school at his own pace, he'd be far ahead of his peers. _Years_ ahead. Instead, he's afraid to raise his hand, afraid to stand out. Most of these kids probably have no idea he exists. He is in _hiding_ , Captain. He's more concerned with fitting in, with convincing everyone that he's a ‘normal’ kid, than he is with his own potential. And I'm sorry, but that...” Tony’s nostril’s flared. “That's something he learned at home: Toxic humility.”

“Mr. Stark, you are crossing a line,” Rogers said with a careful, rumbling voice.

“I actually know that,” Tony agreed as he raised a placating hand. “I don't always, but this time I do. I'm not enjoying this conversation, like, _at all_.”

“I don't know where you got your experience parenting teenage boys, Mr. Stark, but it isn't all education and potential. Peter never needed help with any of that, thank God.” The man’s stony expression made Tony nervous. When Tony was nervous, he fidgeted, and that didn’t seem to impress Captain Rogers one bit. “My son needed to explore, and play, and be a kid. He's still a kid. And yes, I raised him to be humble, because I’m not trying to raise an extraordinary _mind_. I'm bringing up an extraordinary _man_. Maybe I am screwing it all up, but I don't think so. Peter is good, he's great. You're right; I am proud. Peter makes me proud, exactly the way he is.”

Tony let that declaration sit for a moment before he smiled, a bit apologetically. “You obviously love your son, and you want the best for him, but Steve—” The look on the blond’s face didn’t invite continued informality. Tony recovered with: “Captain. This isn't Peter's best. Not even close. The most he lets himself imagine is an ordinary life. An ordinary life for an extraordinary mind.”

Rogers huffed a rather foreboding sound. “I think we're done here.”

“Are we?” (Tony couldn’t help the snark. He really could not.) “All right then. You're obviously upset. And really, I... God. I didn't want to upset you.” Tony laughed a little, shaking his head as he looked away. “You really can't imagine how much I did not want to do that.”

The edges of Rogers’s face softened. “I really appreciate your interest in Peter, Mr. Stark. He loves your class.”

“I'd like to keep tutoring him,” Tony said, trying for _earnest_ and probably hitting closer to _desperately gauche_. “Even if you don't want to advance him through his other subjects, he's ready for college-level science. I'm the only teacher here who can give him that. I want to. And I’d like to pair him up with one of my students from Columbia, to meet with them both here on campus—Principal Potts has already okayed it, if you agree. Peter should probably advance in math, too, if you're open to it. I can help you find a mathematics tutor from the university, as well. If you want.”

“I'll think about it.”

Tony grinned his relief as he got to his feet. “Please do. Let me know what you decide. My email is always open.”

“Thank you for speaking so candidly,” Rogers said, and then hesitated. His expression turned rueful. “I want to shake your hand, but Pete told me you aren’t always comfortable with touching people.”

That was... Okay, that was pretty nice, really. Embarrassing, but... considerate. Tony grinned, even as he fought back a blush.

“Strangers, mostly,” he corrected. “It’s a thing, not your problem. But Peter talks about you so much, we aren’t really strangers, anyway, so, please.” He extended a hand across the desk. Rogers had to stand to shake, and he did so with good grace. The captain’s palm dwarfed his own, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. (Considerate.) Tony was pretty sure his own hand felt sweaty.

Captain Rogers cracked a smile, seemingly in spite of himself, and Tony’s stomach turned into the Coney Island ferris wheel. _Jesus_ , that smile.

Awkward. As. Fuck.

“Thank you for coming in,” Tony managed.

“Anytime,” Rogers nodded. That was a hell of a lie, but he was still wearing that small smile. He made a little humming sound, almost nervous, and then clicked his tongue before saying, “Let me give you my number. I’ve got yours from Pete. We can hash out details, come to some kind of agreement about the college courses.”

Tony startled. “Oh! Yes, great, okay. Really?”

“Really,” Rogers nodded, with a raised eyebrow. He pulled a business card from his wallet, and a pen from his pocket. He wrote the number on the blank back, and slid it cross the desk. Tony wondered if Peter mentioned the handing-Tony-things problem, too.

“Thanks,” Tony said sincerely. “I’m just… I’m so glad, really. He’s going to do great.”

Rogers eyes narrowed and head tilted, like he’d seen something in Tony that didn’t meet expectations. That was a pretty familiar look. Then Officer Ken Doll hightailed it out of the office before Tony could even round his desk.

Tony used a flat hand on each side of his head to crack tension from his neck. He rubbed more feeling into his inexplicably cold fingers. Huh. That was... successful? Maybe? But also, really uncomfortable? His phone buzzed, rattling against the desk.

Rhodey:

What do you call a bad electrician?

Tony:

a shock absorber, ffs, get some new material.

i’m having a religious experience. send a priest.

Rhodey:

I’ll call Pep. Or your AA sponsor.

Tony:

fuck off.

Rhodey:

Never. What’s going on?

Tony:

just met parker’s dad. p/t conference.

Rhodey:

…and?

Tony:

and he looks like johnny storm in that terrible fantastic 4 movie, but HOTTER.

Rhodey:

Jesus Christ.

Tony:

i shit you not, war machine, i wanted to tap on his chest to make sure he was real.

also, because his chest was like WHOA.

there are many parts of him i want to tap.

Rhodey:

You’re making it difficult to like you right now.

He was really that good looking? Because I’ve seen Peter.

Tony:

“good looking,” ha! you’re adorable.

don’t shade my young padawan. peter’s cute, for an ACTUAL CHILD.

his father is the kind of guy you call daddy. if you know what i mean.

Rhodey:

“if you know what i mean.”

I’m straight, not celibate.

Tony:

do women call you daddy? that seems like a thing they would call you.

that seems like a thing i would call you!

Rhodey:

Nope. That’s a Bad Touch Zone. You do not get to call me that.

Tony:

*sigh* fine.

Rhodey:

Student’s fathers are also a bad idea, FYI.

Tony:

i’m not an idiot.

he gave me his number, but only for tutoring purposes.

also, he’s the straightest dude i’ve ever met. very serious eyebrows.

i was so nervous, i was probably sweating glitter.

Rhodey:

Straighter than Happy?

Tony:

straighter than pepper.

Rhodey:

Jesus. Sorry, man.

Tony:

it’s nothing, it’s not like i’ll actually get to know the guy.

and late-night fantasy daddies tell no tales.

Rhodey:

I’m going to go bleach my brain now.

Tony:

what does chromedome call rewind to get his motor running?

MACK DADDY

Rhodey:

No.

Tony laughed out loud, but wasn’t tool enough to admit that. Lucky Rhodey texted, actually. He had to meet Bruce in less than an hour, and Bruce had very limited tolerance for Tony’s (mostly imaginary) love life. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed both eyes, leaning back precariously in his rolling chair.

He told Rhodey the truth: he had no reason to contact Captain Steve Rogers.

Tony grabbed the business card, memorizing the phone number almost faster than he could read it. He flipped the card.

**CAPTAIN STEVE ROGERS**

**Strategic Response, Special Operations Bureau**

**New York Police Department**

**SHIELD #1918**

“Strategic Response.” Well, fuck.

He saved the number in his phone under NOT GONNA HAPPEN, and then shoved the business card into the trash.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're in Steve's perspective for the first time. Huzzah!
> 
> (Note the E rating on this fic, and the tags.)
> 
> I'm pleasantly baffled any time my fics are bookmarked or subscribed to, and this fic is building subscriptions like I’m offering Gift with Purchase. (Shameless fanfic joke.) Thank you! This fandom is always interesting and engaged, so I don't know why I'm surprised.
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment if you're following along, and feeling up to the interaction. I try to respond to every one.
> 
> I welcome corrections for spelling, grammar, and the like. Please refrain from concrit comments, as it derails my work (while I obsessively research canon and reevaluate plot because I am a perfectionist with ADHD). But feel free to ask questions and geek out about canon callbacks.
> 
> If you're looking for an explanation of the universe I'm working in, with minor spoilers, you can check out my post on Tumblr:
> 
> https://earnestdesire.tumblr.com/post/628633949754867712/regarding-canon-with-minor-spoilers
> 
> I'm grateful for every kudo and comment. Keep yourselves safe for me. XOXO

**CHAPTER TWO**

“Dad? Dad!”

Steve Rogers sighed as he finally wiggled his key free from the front door lock. It was a fond sigh—Steve knew that he possessed a full rolodex of sighs. He’d been anticipating Pete’s inquisition the whole way home.

“Yeah, buddy,” he called back. “You guys have dinner on?”

“We got dinner _ordered_ ,” Bucky replied from living room. “PT today. Did you forget?”

“No, no,” Steve lied. “How’d that go? She able to stretch out that shoulder?”

“Dad!” Peter interrupted, bounding into the room just as Steve got his coat hung and his shoes toed off. “How was the meeting? Did you like Mr. Stark? Did he say anything about underroos, because he just thinks it’s funny—”

Bucky snorted. “Shoulder’s fine. Spider-son is _not_. He’s climbing the GD walls.”

“Of course Mr. Stark didn’t mention underwear. What’re you talking about?”

“Nothing!” Peter squeaked.

“We had a good meeting. He’s an interesting guy.” Steve said. He dialed open the gun safe in the dining room closet, and stowed his equipment inside. Peter rocked back and forth on his feet (heel-toe, heel-toe). Steve shot him a raised eyebrow. “You were really that worried?”

“Not—not _worried_. I just, like, want you to like him. Because I like him. He’s—”

“Totally awesome,” Bucky swooned, dropping his head against the back of the couch. “Totally funny, and a genius, and did you know he’s working on artificial intelligence?”

“I might’ve heard that somewhere,” Steve said, and spun the lock on the safe.

“He sounds dreamy,” Bucky deadpanned. Peter squawked in outrage.

“Not like _that_. I don’t even like guys like that!”

“We know that,” Steve said.

“But, whatever, even if I did, Mr. Stark is _old_.”

Steve frowned. “He’s not that old, Pete.”

“He’s older than you guys.”

“Really?” Steve pulled his necktie loose and unbuttoned the collar. “He didn’t look it.”

Bucky’s blue eyes narrowed. “How’d he look?”

Steve glared back. “Like our kid’s professor.”

“‘Cause I seem to remember the guy making those stupid Sexiest Man lists, back in the day.”

Steve sighed—the annoyed kind—as Peter’s eyes pingponged between them. “He’s handsome, obviously, you’ve seen his picture before. But he’s got no filter, he’s sarcastic, he thinks he knows better than everybody else—”

“Oh, he’s a smart-aleck who isn’t impressed by you in that uniform?” Buck nodded. “That’ll be of no interest to you, o’course.”

“Shut up, jerk.”

“You first, punk.”

“Umm, guys?” Peter piped up. “Are you saying Dad has a crush on Mr. Stark?”

Bucky sat up, grinning. “That what we’re saying, Stevie?”

“That is definitely _not_ what we are saying. I didn’t even like him.”

“You didn’t like him?” Peter said, voice unusually small. “Oh.”

“No, I just meant—” Steve sighed. Again. “Really, kiddo. It was fine. He seems like a good teacher. Now can I get changed before you keep interrogating me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter said, backing away toward the kitchen (and likely his backyard retreat). “Sorry. I’ll just…” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, and was gone before Steve could salvage the situation.

“Way to go,” Bucky mumbled.

“Are you serious? You couldn’t just keep your fat mouth shut?”

“I’m not the one who walked in here with that baffled look on my face, calling _Tony fucking Stark_ ‘interesting’ and ‘handsome.’”

“Everybody calls Tony Stark ‘interesting’ and ‘handsome.’”

“I don’t.”

“You’re straight. And you probably would, if you met him.”

“Huh.”

Steve turned away, tugging the tails of his shirt from his belt. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Better be.”

Steve left Bucky behind in the living room as he climbed the stairs to the second story. Three bedrooms and a single ancient bath filled the upper level of their little end-row brownstone. He could hear the bathroom faucet dripping. Steve needed to fix that.

Once upon a time, things like drippy faucets and sticky front locks would’ve been Bucky’s department. Mr. Barnes, Bucky’s father, had been the building super while they were growing up, and Buck was the man’s only son. He roped Bucky into all kinds of projects, teaching him to clean out drains traps and replace broken window glass. Sometimes, Mr. Barnes let Steve tag along, even though he never thought Steve was fit for that kind of labor—

(Steve chopped the thought short. It didn’t matter. Mr. Barnes had been dead for twelve years, and he’d loved Steve. In his way.)

Bucky was good with his hands, back when he had a matched set. He didn’t always want to play unpaid assistant to Mr. Barnes, but he was good at it. He liked being good at it. The service took Buck’s left arm, but also those skills and the drive to use them. There was so much he could still do, if he only took time to relearn how. Steve swallowed back his own frustration as he listened to the _drip-drip-drip_.

Thank Christ for YouTube videos, really. Steve learned to change the oil in his own car. He learned to replace a ceiling fan. He taught Peter how to catch a football, even though Pete was ambivalent about it, and then how to put on a tie. Dad stuff. Man stuff.

Steve tossed the sweaty uniform into the wash basket and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He didn’t know why he was maudlin today. He just kept hearing Mr. Stark saying ‘ _toxic humility_ ,’ and it made him want to hit something. He should jog over to the gym, beat the heavy bag for a while before bed.

Steve hung his belt in the hall closet he used for his own. He got the shower going, and avoided looking in the mirror. It wasn’t a good day for mirrors.

Once he was clean, Steve pulled on tight briefs, loose workout shorts, and a t-shirt, then retrieved a cock from the top drawer of his dresser. He positioned his packer carefully, because it was a nightmare if it rubbed him the wrong way while he was working out. He grabbed himself a hoodie that fit just a little too small—probably Bucky’s—and trotted downstairs as the doorbell rang.

“Got it!” he called, and took two pies off the delivery guy’s hands.

“No salad?” Steve asked as he carried everything through to the kitchen. He pulled out plates while Bucky ambled over, one hand in his pocket.

“You weren’t home,” Buck said, shrugging.

Steve flipped both boxes open on the counter next to the stove, and pulled a bag of mixed greens from the fridge. He filled three bowls with lettuce, tossed in a handful of baby carrots, and then stuck his head out the back door to holler for his son.

“Pete! Dinner! You want Italian or thousand-island on your salad?”

Peter leaned over the railing of his tree house with a skeptical look. “Don’t we have ranch?”

“Did I say ranch?”

“Thousand-island, I guess.” Peter descended the tree like he always had—climbing quickly, no need for a ladder—and Steve nodded. He ducked back inside to finish the greens, disguising Bucky’s with croutons and too much parmesan cheese. Bucky plated pizza for the three of them.

And it was good. Pete came back inside, pink-cheeked and smiling, and Bucky had cheese trailing from his mouth, stuck to his stubble, and it was _so good_.

They adjourned to the living room couch. The dining room table was always covered in projects: Lego starships, 3d puzzles, Pete and Bucky’s epically long games of _Risk_ (Steve was banned from competing after too many quick victories). Tonight, it was a disorganized mix of Peter’s school books and Steve’s pencil sketches. The “dining room” only ever fulfilled its purpose when Bucky’s sister visited from New Jersey.

Steve liked the casual mess of it. He liked the evidence of their lives together, left out in the open—liked to see the work they were doing, liked to watch them all figure things out. He was proud of that work, even if he sometimes worried he wasn’t giving them enough to work _with_. But it was the three of them, together, ‘til the end of the line, watching TV and reluctantly eating the salad Steve made.

It was good. Even if it wasn’t always enough.

“You know,” Steve said, bumping a shoulder into Peter, “I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t like Mr. Stark. Buck was just baiting me.”

“True,” the other man grunted.

“So, I’m sorry,” Steve went on. “I know you like him. I thought he was a good guy.”

“You did?” Peter said. He wasn’t looking at Steve.

“He really likes you, too. He thinks you’re a genius.”

His son's eyes flew open, turning Steve’s way. “What? Really?”

“Really. He told me you’re one of the smartest kids he’s ever worked with.”

“‘Course he is,” Bucky said, then took a long pull of his beer. “Pete's top-fucking-tier.”

“Language,” Steve muttered back as he lowered the volume on the commercials.

“Takes after his old man, don't you, kid?”

Peter sputtered a bit, and went red around the ears, but he also leaned some of his weight into Steve. Steve lifted an arm to tug Pete even closer.

“Did Mr. Stark tell you about the other kid he wants you to work with?”

“Yeah!” Peter’s brown eyes lit up. “Riri Williams! She’s a freshman at Columbia. Mr. Stark says she reverse-engineered some totally classified tech, and she was supposed to get in trouble, but Mr. Stark heard about it and got her into Columbia instead! Isn’t that cool?”

Steve struggled not to frown. “How’d she find out about classified tech?”

“Hacked a server or something, I don’t know, but Mr. Stark says she’s totally brilliant.”

“Totally,” Bucky said.

Steve’s nostrils flared. “She sure sounds… Interesting.”

“Yeah,” Pete sighed, leaning back again into the sofa with a smile.

“Rogers men and _interesting_ people,” Bucky groused. “I swear to Christ.”

An hour later, Steve jogged his way toward the front entrance of his gym, bag strapped across his shoulders. He’d been a member at Goldie’s Boxing Gym for more than two decades, and the place had changed less than it probably should. It was old school and uncomplicated—heavy bags, speed bags, rowing and lifting machines, a few of those dummys that the MMA guys liked. Two raised boxing rings. The fluorescent lights sometimes whined, the showers stayed cold, and there were corners that never, ever got dusted.

But Steve had shown up before his surgical transition, and Old Phillips (the owner) never batted an eye. He’d never commented on Steve’s spotty facial hair, his wrapped chest and sloped shoulders—only advised him to increase his protein and try out the rowing machine. When Steve went back to the gym two weeks after top surgery, Phillips only huffed, “Don’t be tearin’ out stitches, you damn fool! Come back when you can lift your hands higher’n your head.”

Chester Phillips had to be pushing eighty, these days, and still sat behind the front counter every morning. He rarely smiled. Steve thought the man might be one of his closest friends, though they never used the word.

Tonight, though, Phillips was scowling. “Late for you, boyo.”

“You, too.”

“Wade fucked off again, calling in ‘sick.’” Phillips’s air quotes were the stuff of legend. “I’m stuck here ‘til closing. What’s your excuse?”

Steve leaned over the counter, and caught the eye of the golden retriever lying patiently at her owner’s feet. Goldie the Fifth wagged her tail, and looked toward Phillips. “Go on then,” he grunted, so she jumped up and strolled around the counter. Goldie suck a cold nose in Steve’s palm.

“Hey girl,” he murmured, ruffling her ears. “Want a treat?”

“You spoil that damn dog,” Phillips said, just like always.

“She’s worth spoiling,” Steve always replied. He pulled a strip of jerky from his pack, and Goldie took it from him with a wagging tail and a wolfish smile.

“What you doin’ here, Steve? You were already in at daybreak.”

Steve shrugged. “Strange day. Needed to blow off steam.”

“Want to talk about it?” Phillips eyed him.

“Nope.”

“Good. Don’t overdo it. You’re always overdoin’ it.”

Steve made a rather sarcastic salute, and headed toward the changing room.

“And don’t break my goddamn bag!” Phillips shouted after him. Steve smiled.

He’d barely gotten his stuff into his locker when his cell phone went off, trilling its factory-set ring. (He couldn’t stop Peter and Bucky from messing around with the personal numbers, but insisted they leave his work-related ringtone alone.)

“Hello? Rogers speaking.”

“Are you secure enough to take a private call, Captain Rogers?”

Steve sighed, but politely. “Give me a minute, Sitwell. I’m in the gym.” He trotted back toward the front, indicating his cell phone when Phillips’s gray eyebrows went up. Goldie followed Steve out the door, and parked herself next to him on the quiet sidewalk.

“All right, Sitwell. I can talk.”

“Hold for the boss.”

Steve frowned. It’d been more than a month since he’d spoken to Chief Fury directly, and never in his off-hours. He ran a hand over Goldie’s head, absentminded, while his brain cycled through increasingly thorny possibilities.

“Rogers. Fury here.”

“Hello, sir. How can I help you?”

The police chief grunted, “Going to need your whole team in the war room, first thing tomorrow. We’ve got a situation.”

“What kind of situation?” Steve said, lips and shoulders tight.

“It’s not terrorism,” Chief Fury said plainly. “You can unbuckle that gun belt, son, and standby. It’s serious, but not world-ending.”

“Serious enough for Special Ops.”

“Serious enough for full blackout. Nobody outside your team knows we’re meeting, and nobody will know what it’s about. Clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“I need you all here by nine o’clock. Jasper will have us set up, but he won’t be sitting in.”

That made Steve tense up, again. Jasper Sitwell was Fury’s second-in-command. If Sitwell wasn’t clued in, Steve knew it must be more serious than Fury was letting on over the phone. He’d said it wasn’t terrorism, though.

Nicholas Fury wasn’t an easy man to read. Steve never could tell when he was lying.

“We’ll be there, sir. Do you want Wilson in on this?”

Fury paused, then said, “Jesus, yeah. I suppose. He ought to be able to keep a lid on it.”

“Sir…” Steve chose his words with care. “If the threat is imminent—”

“It’s imminent, but isolated. And that’s all I’m saying until tomorrow morning.”

“I understand.”

“You don’t, but you will tomorrow. Sleep well, Rogers.”

“Thank you, s—” The phone clicked, and the dial tone made Steve swallow yet another sigh.

Steve typed out a group text to his team (slowly enough to make Pete twitch), letting them know about the morning meeting. He got back several immediate responses, but didn’t bother waiting for Clint; he’d be waiting all night, and Natasha would make sure his sharpshooter showed up. Goldie watched him patiently as he finally shut off the phone. Steve offered her his wriggling fingers. She licked them twice, then turned toward the door of the gym. “Sure, girl. I’m done here.”

Steve tried to focus on his workout, but his mind kept sliding sideways, toward the phone call with Fury. _Standby_ , the chief had said. The best and worst side effect of Steve’s ADHD was hyperfocus, which made him a singularly effective tactician and strategist, but also completely incapable of relaxing. He was mission-oriented by nature. “Soldier scowl,” they called it around the station. _Captain Rogers has his soldier scowl on again_.

Steve tried not to mind the irony of that.

Once his brain started sorting through probabilities, there was no stopping it. He had to concede defeat long before he’d normally tap out of his workout, but it was probably for the best. It got dark early this time of year, and he’d need another shower and a snack before bed. Steve let his whirring mind go wild as he jogged back home again.

His house was dark, too, but he could hear the TV was on in Bucky’s bedroom down the hall. He called out an all-clear, just in case Bucky was up. Then he got back into the shower, closing weary eyes under the spray.

What the hell was Fury’s meeting about? Assuming the police chief wasn’t lying (big assumption), and the threat wasn’t terrorism, what would necessitate a formal sit down without _also_ calling the team in ASAP?

Couldn’t be a missing person. Those were time-sensitive.

Suspected drownings, likewise. Plus, his team weren’t usually the first call.

Civil demonstration was pretty unlikely. Steve couldn’t imagine Fury would let them sleep on that sort of thing, were it happening tonight, and he hadn’t been briefed on anything significant upcoming.

Bank robbery? Maybe. If they managed to connect a few to the same crew, that’d definitely be worth Special Ops’ time.

Mass shooting—Steve’s brain shied away. (Of course not. He’d be en route already.) He knocked his skull against the tile once, trying to clear his head.

Steve washed and rinsed his short hair quickly, then scrubbed at the sweat across his chest and under his arms. He could feel the tension in his own shoulders, and he needed to relax enough to sleep. Steve soaped up the fingers of his right hand so that he could try to coax a response out of his tightly-wound body; it always helped quiet the noise, when he could manage it. His cock responded, but his mind wasn’t there. He'd spiraled too deep. Steve closed his eyes, leaned back against the shower wall, and tried to draw up a suitable fantasy.

Steve ignored gender for a moment, because he wasn’t interested in making any more decisions tonight. Instead, he pictured somebody on their knees. His mind’s eye couldn’t see much—tan shoulders, long fingers, dark hair—as the formless partner knelt between his spread legs. Steve flicked his cock softly, imagining a warm tongue. He dug fingernails into his own thigh, imagining they were some other man’s hands.

A man, then. All right.

Stubble scraping against his thighs. Toughened fingertips. Short, soft hair he could grip in one hand, and shoulders strong enough to lean against. _Damn_. Water sliding down the stranger’s body, along the muscles of his lean back. The stubble felt softer than expected, longer, so Steve pictured a dark beard. He wasn't usually a fan of facial hair, but it felt fucking exquisite against his stomach as the man bit down on Steve’s slick hip.

Steve pulled a little harder on his cock, spreading his own wetness over it. He imagined those long, tough fingers working, quick and clever, and looked down to watch.

The imaginary man looked up.

Big, brown eyes. Dark hair curling in the damp. Just a glimpse of a long, thin cock bobbing between spread knees. Full goatee and white teeth grinning and _fuuuuck_ —

Steve came. He came hard enough that he had to sit down, curled up awkwardly on the floor of the too-small cast iron tub. He bit hard on his lip to stifle the moan.

_Tony fucking Stark_.


End file.
